Fahrenheit
by laras-dice
Summary: A mission puts body heat on everyone's mind. (*6/6*)
1. Heat

Title: Fahrenheit  
Author: Laras_Dice  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: None  
Archive: Anywhere, but please let me know  
Summary: A mission puts body heat on everyone's mind.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing and love Alias. So don't sue me!

AN: Not a sequel to "Spark," although I guess it could have happened at some point before that story. It's a standalone mission piece that I thought of while brainstorming for said sequel. There's no outright romance, but it's definitely Syd-Vaughn centric. ;-)

Chapter 1 - Heat

"Unseasonably warm doesn't even begin to describe this," Sydney Bristow muttered, scolding the weatherman on her Land Rover's radio. She reached down and turned up the fan on her overmatched air conditioner before smoothly flicking her turn signal and flipping into another lane. Her eyes turned to the rearview mirror, scanning the traffic behind her. No tails, but her forehead was glistening with sweat again. She reached up and wiped it off before shimmying the SUV through another lane change.

The heat matched her mood. The Land Rover's backseat held the suitcase for yet another last-minute mission, her head was throbbing with the promise that it was only going to get worse, and she was 15 minutes late for a meeting.

After another, more subtle, check of the mirror, she cranked a quick left-hand turn into a cluster of abandoned-looking warehouses. The turn always scared her, because if she had missed the tail at this point, her cover was essentially blown. _As a rule_, she thought, _college students don't frequent abandoned warehouses unless they're planning a rave_. _And I think security section knows that I'm not one to frequent raves unless it's part of the job._

Another damn rave. She imagined music with a beat the same pace as the pounding in her head and another absurdly skimpy outfit as she stepped out of the car into the heat. And if it was this hot in Los Angeles, it could only be worse in Brazil. _Damn it. _She knew it would be no cooler in the warehouse, and that the strange scents some of the boxes had been emitting lately could only be worse in the raging heat.

Normally, the worried expression on Michael Vaughn's face would have been enough to make her melt, at least a little. But she was beyond melting on this day.

He was standing in the middle of their usual meeting place, a chain-link-fenced area, dressed in shirtsleeves and a thin layer of sweat. He looked only slightly more collected than her, asking, "Everything okay?"

"Yeah." Her voice was rushed. She felt rushed, and had all day. "My class ran late, and I had to pack, and then I hit rush hour."

"Sounds like it's not okay."

"Well aren't you Mr. Perceptive?" She regretted the words instantly, running a hand through her hair — soaked at the roots — before continuing. "Sorry. It's just that it's like 900 degrees out there, I'm so exhausted I feel like I'm going to fall over, and I've got a paper due in three days that I haven't even started yet. Not to mention this absolutely absurd mission."

"It's not absurd, Sydney. If Trevor Walsh does somehow have even trace amounts of the smallpox virus -- "

She waved her hands to halt his words, his understanding tone. "-- Walsh does not have the smallpox virus. How could he possibly have gotten it? There's no way. No. This is just another mission to make my life miserable. And to make matters worse, I've got to do this solo, because Dixon's daughter is sick."

"That's why I wanted to meet with you before you left," Vaughn said, handing her a small plastic bag. It held a tiny radio earpiece and microphone. "We'll handle coms for you."

"You?" It wasn't even a full question, but they both knew the understated meaning. She wanted his voice in her ear.

"Yeah." The corners of his mouth twitched enough to hint of a smile before he continued. "You'll swap the vials at the airport with this man." He held up a picture. "He'll be wearing a New York Yankees ball cap."

She nodded, staring at the CIA agent's mug shot until she had his face frozen in her memory. "This guy's mansion is in a pretty remote spot. Are you sure the radio will work?"

"The tech guys assured me that they did a link from a spot not too far from there five years ago," he said. "And they assure me that this equipment is 'way trickier' than what they had then."

She smiled slightly and then crinkled her nose. "There could be smallpox breeding in here for all we know. What is that smell?"

"I'm sure it's just another part of the giant conspiracy to make your life miserable," he said. It had started as a wisecrack retort, but they both grew silent with the realization that he wasn't that far from the truth.

She sighed and turned to leave. "I'd better get going unless I want to add a missed flight to this classic day. Talk to you in a little bit."

"Be careful," he called after her, lifting his hand to wipe the sweat from his own brow.


	2. Unexpected

Title: Fahrenheit  
Author: Laras_Dice  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: None  
Archive: Anywhere, but please let me know  
Summary: A mission puts body heat on everyone's mind.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing and love Alias. So don't sue me!

AN: A little something during my Spark-sequel hiatus. 

Chapter 2 - Unexpected

Sydney checked herself one more time in the rearview mirror before exiting the rental car. Myra, SD-6's eccentric wardrobe woman, had outdone herself this time, she thought. She was wearing a short leather skirt, a skin-tight spangled top and a pair of knee-length leather boots — not stilettos this time, a concession that had stemmed from extensive begging. A purple-streaked close-cropped blond wig was crushing her already sweat-soaked natural hair, although a slight breeze gave her hope that the night might bring marginally cooler temperatures.

She tapped a spot on her ear next to a large hoop earring. "You better not be sitting in air conditioning right now."

A chuckle, but no retort, which made her think he probably was.

"How was your flight?" he asked.

"Not too bad," she responded. "And climate-controlled, always a bonus."

Another chuckle as she walked through the front door. Sydney still couldn't understand the fascination so many of the world's filthy-rich crime masters had with these massive parties. She suspected it had to do a lot with drugs and young women dressed like herself. At least it provided an easy way to infiltrate them, she thought as she scanned the room.

Sydney wasn't big on dancing, but always found it was easy to blend at raves. She joined the writhing, sweaty mass, bobbing with them for a few head-pounding songs to blend in. The room's security seemed as lax as Sloane had promised — the reason SD-6 had felt they could send her alone. She didn't catch the presence of an equally skimpily attired Anna Espinosa doing the same on the other side of the room.

"I'm going for the vials," she said, then realized that Vaughn probably couldn't hear her. She started down a hallway, visualizing the mansion's blueprints in her mind. When she was far enough from the throbbing bass, she spoke again. "Vaughn, I'm heading for the basement."

"Copy that."

Walking briskly, she turned a corner and opened the door to a small room. This action startled a woman sitting in the corner, a syringe plunged into a vein in her arm. Sydney paused and stared at her for a moment before the woman smiled and pressed the plunger of the syringe. Forcing back a wave of nausea, Sydney smiled back and continued to a door at the back of the room.

As she started down the stairs beyond the doorway, Vaughn spoke. "Everything okay? You stopped there."

"Fine," she whispered. "I walked in on some woman shooting up."

"Is she a threat?"

"No." She had reached the bottom of the stairs. "I get the feeling that in a few minutes she's not even going to know what planet she's on."

Sydney scanned the basement, which was primarily filled with aging furniture and artwork, before running up to a large metal doorway.

"I'm unscrambling the combination." She removed an earring and placed it next to a numeric keypad, waiting a few seconds until a beep and a loud clank signaled to her that the lock was no longer a problem. She tugged on the heavy door, finally prying it open, and stepped inside, immediately sighing in relief.

"You all right?" Vaughn questioned in her ear.

"I'm absolutely fabulous. The vault's refrigerated." Sydney could almost see his grin.

She stepped inside, allowing the coolness to wash over her for a glorious second before getting to work. The vault was about six feet square, certainly large enough for the small rack of vials located on a shelf in the back. Pulling a small purse off of her shoulder, Sydney unzipped the top.

"There are six vials," she said. "I'm taking them all." She reached for the first, but just before her fingers touched it, she felt something hard slam against the back of her head.

"Aiiigh." She fell to the floor as Anna Espinosa dropped an antique chair leg beside her, stepped over her and grabbed the rack. Stunned, Sydney stood, just a bit too late to stop Anna from slamming the vault door in her face.


	3. Calculating

Title: Fahrenheit  
Author: Laras_Dice  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: Q&A in author notes :-)  
Archive: Anywhere, but please let me know  
Summary: A mission puts body heat on everyone's mind.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing and love Alias. So don't sue me!

AN: As for the medical-y stuff in here, I don't know much beyond the wee bit of research I did on the Web, so the times might be off, but I thought the general concept was pretty reasonable. Can a radio connection work inside a locked vault? Is there such thing as a refrigerated vault? Can you really survive underwater by breathing air from your tires? Come on, guys, this is Alias. Just run with it. 

Chapter 3 - Calculating

"What the hell just happened?" Eric Weiss asked. He had been listening to the radio feed with Vaughn in a CIA operations room.

"I don't know," Vaughn replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "Syd, you okay?"

He held his breath for the long, agonizing pause before she spoke, sounding a little disoriented. "Yes...no. Anna's here. She got the vials, and...."

He heard her pounding on the walls and door of the vault. "....Vaughn, I think I'm locked in here."

Vaughn barely flicked his microphone switch before blurting to Weiss, "Damn it." He turned the microphone back on. "Syd, do you have any way out of there?"

Vaughn could hear her beating on the door with something, her breathing a little heavier when she finally spoke. "I don't think so." Now, her voice held desperation. "Vaughn, I'm trapped in here, and I think it's below freezing."

The panicked glance he gave to Weiss belied Vaughn's calm words. "We need to get somebody, preferably a team, down there now. Tell them Agent Bristow is trapped in a refrigerated vault." Panic pummeled Vaughn's stomach as he touched the microphone switch, adding, "And see if we can get somebody in here that knows about...hypothermia."

Weiss yanked the phone nearest him from its receiver as Vaughn switched his microphone back on. "Sydney, we're going to get you out of there."

He glanced over at his friend as Weiss' voice grew louder. "No, you don't seem to understand. If we don't move on this right now we're going to lose one of our most valuable doubles." Weiss paused. "Well then pull them off! We can't afford to lose any more time."

Finally, Weiss seemed satisfied with the response he got. "Nearest agents are half an hour away," he told Vaughn, already in the process of dialing another number. "They're on their way now."

"Syd, we've got people on the way, but it's going to take a little while."

"How long?" Fear wasn't something Vaughn often heard in her voice, and the sound of it clutched at him.

"About half an hour."

"Oh." He could hear her begin to breathe more rapidly, but couldn't see the frightened look in her eyes as she glanced down at her arms and saw the beginnings of goose bumps on what had just recently been overheated flesh. 

Vaughn turned his attention to Weiss' phone conversation. 

"It's going to be at least 30 minutes before we can get anyone in there." Weiss motioned to him to turn off his microphone, asking, "Can she give you a temperature, even an estimate?"

A temperature, Vaughn thought, _means they're calculating how long she'll survive in there_. The room seemed to spin slightly with that realization. "Syd, can you give us a temperature?"

"I don't know," she responded, voice shaky. "It's really cold, and there's a thin layer of ice over everything."

Weiss relayed this information into the phone, then glanced at Vaughn. His left hand was hovering over the microphone switch, shaking, while his right clutched the table's edge in a white-knuckled grip. Weiss' next words were quiet, almost a whisper. "I don't think he wants to know." 

"That's Dr. Jenkins from medical," Weiss said, hanging up the phone. "She's on her way here, but she said really the only thing you can do is keep her talking." 

Vaughn increased the tension in his right hand to the point where Weiss was waiting for either the table or some of the bones to snap under the pressure. Still maintaining his death grip on the table, Vaughn glanced down at the microphone switch and then back up at Weiss, his eyes leaking the pure terror paralyzing his mind. 


	4. Chilled

Title: Fahrenheit  
Author: Laras_Dice  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: None  
Archive: Anywhere, but please let me know  
Summary: A mission puts body heat on everyone's mind.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing and love Alias. So don't sue me!

AN: Again, I'm no doctor or medical-type, but I thought the general concept was pretty reasonable. 

Chapter 4 - Chilled

"Sydney?" His voice was calm, although she suspected he was not.

"Yeah?" She whispered. She was sitting with her back to the wall on one side of the small vault, trying to reason her way out of full panic.

"You're gonna be okay." Everything about the situation told her she was not going to be okay, but she didn't voice those thoughts. "I want you to talk to me. Just keep talking."

Keep talking so you don't fall asleep and die, she realized. She rubbed her arms, trying to bring some warmth to them and longing for the heat she had been cursing for days. The thin layer of sweat on her body had long since dissipated, and her muscles ached from the quick loss of warmth. "Talk about what?"

"Anything," he responded. "You said you had a paper due. What's the topic?"

"War themes in _All Quiet on the Western Front_."

"So what 'war themes' are you writing about?"

"I don't know," she responded. "I haven't even read the book yet."

He gave her a tense chuckle and paused for a second. "Weiss had to read it in college. He said you should just write 'this book sucks' in really big font."

She laughed softly and then fell silent.

Vaughn pushed on. "So how are Will and Francie?" With that question, the horrific absurdity of the situation struck Vaughn. These were questions he would like to be able to ask her in normal, everyday conversation. Instead, he was asking them over a radio link, trying to keep her from freezing to death in some vault in Brazil.

"Will's good," she said. "He had this huge front-page exposé on the mayor's office last week, so we've been hearing about it non-stop since." Vaughn was familiar with the article. He usually scanned the newspaper for Will Tippin's byline, the remote connection to Sydney enough to generate interest in the work of her friend.

She paused, frightened that the chill felt like it was moving deeper into her core. The cold was raw on her skin, making it ache in the places that weren't already turning numb. Involuntarily, she began to quiver. "And then Francie's great. She met this guy, Jim, and he seems really nice. I hope this works out for her — after everything she's b-been th-through, she d-deserves it."

Vaughn drew in a sharp breath at the sound of her stuttering, knowing that shaking had set in. He flicked his microphone off long enough to tell Weiss, "We need to try and reach Jack Bristow." _In case she doesn't make it out of there_, he didn't add.

"Vaughn, they don't exactly have me dressed in a whole lot of clothing." The shaking was worsening, but this admission to him warmed her slightly with a blush, and she welcomed it.

"What are you wearing?"

For one brief, glorious moment, his question pushed heat throughout her entire body. She wasn't sure if it was the result of a logical line of questioning or personal curiosity, but either way Sydney decided it might make her feel warmer if she told him. "Another t-top from the SD-6 circus c-collection, leather skirt, leather boots — th-thankfully not s-stilettos. I hate th-those d-damn th-things," she said. "Goofy blond and p-purple wig. I think that's helping to k-keep my head w-w-warm."

Vaughn looked up at Dr. Jenkins, who had just walked in and taken a seat next to Weiss. She motioned to him to turn off his microphone.

"She needs to keep her extremities warm," she said, "Especially if she wants to keep her fingers."

Vaughn fought the queasiness in his stomach as he switched his microphone back on. "Syd, you need to keep your hands warm."

"S-sure, Vaughn, just l-let me p-pull my nice l-little gloves out h-here."

He decided her ability to still render sarcasm was a good thing. Vaughn looked up at the doctor as she motioned to him, indicating what Sydney should do.

"Keep them under your armpits." He launched into a new question. "What's your favorite movie?"

"C-C-Casasblanca." The response was immediate. But when she tried to remember plot points, moments, concepts — reasons why she loved the movie — Sydney found they were gone from her mind. "...the end...wh-where..."

Normally, the conversation would have been fascinating to him — a rare personal nugget from Sydney's life. But now Vaughn stared in horror at Dr. Jenkins, the look on her face telling him everything he needed to know as Sydney continued to stumble through her critique of the movie. The closest CIA agent was still 10 minutes away when she trailed to a halt.

"V-Vaughn?" her voice was weak and soft.

"Yes?"

"I don't w-want to t-talk anymore. I can't th-think s-straight and it's too c-c-cold in here." He could hear her teeth chattering.

"Hey!" he spoke sharply, trying to jar her. "Sydney, you have to keep talking. You have to stay awake just a little bit longer. If you don't want to talk about anything, just...." He looked at Dr. Jenkins as she mouthed a message to him. "...just recite the alphabet."

There was a long pause before her disoriented whisper began. It was barely audible, but there. "A...B-B...C..."

Vaughn could think of few things more agonizing than listening to her crawl through the letters, mixing them up more often than she got them right. "V...R...S...Q...T...M...N...O..." 

Occasionally, she would pause, and with a sigh or a moan, ask his permission to stop. He would sharply coax her on, asking her for one more letter, and then another.

Vaughn had long since stopped counting the number of convoluted passes Sydney made through the alphabet when she stopped again.

"My f-fingertips are t-turning b-blue." What frightened Vaughn most was the absence of fear in her voice. "Who'd have th-thought..."

"Who'd have thought what?"

"I always th-thought if I d-died from b-being a s-s-spy, I w-would get sh-shot, or SD-s-six would g-give me the l-lethal inj...inj...sh-shot," she said. "I n-never th-thought I'd f-f-freeze to d-death."

Weiss motioned to him. "One of our guys is on site."

Vaughn screamed into his microphone. "Listen to me! Hang on. You've got to hang on. Syd, just a little longer. Stay with me."

"Mmmmm," she moaned. He heard a soft thud, which her presumed was her slumping against the floor. "S-sorry, V-vaughn. C-c-can't."

"Hey! Sydney! No! Damn it, hang on!" Vaughn glanced in desperation at Dr. Jenkins, but she just shook her head.


	5. Blue

Title: Fahrenheit  
Author: Laras_Dice  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: None  
Archive: Anywhere, but please let me know  
Summary: A mission puts body heat on everyone's mind.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing and love Alias. So don't sue me!

Chapter 5 - Blue

"Who am I talking to?" Weiss asked. He had switched the intercom in the operations room to the CIA agent's microphone, leaving only Vaughn to listen to the silence from Sydney's. She hadn't spoken in several minutes, and he hoped he wasn't just imagining her shallow breathing.

"This is Sparrow," the agent responded.

"Okay, Sparrow," Weiss responded. The closest agent to the mansion had been pulled off of covert duty, and he knew a lot of people weren't very happy about that. "Where are you?"

"Walking up the front steps."

"Slow down for a second!" Weiss said, hearing the music grow louder. "If I don't give you directions now, you'll never hear." He grabbed the CIA's copy of the blueprints from a nearby table and proceeded to instruct the agent on the fastest route to the basement. Then the music grew louder. 

Vaughn turned at the sound of the room's door creaking open and found himself facing Jack Bristow. The most frightening thing about the tortured look in Jack's eyes, he realized, was that it was probably mirrored in his own. He stared at Jack for a second before turning to look at the rest of the room. 

He was surprised to see Devlin and several other senior officers standing in the back. He had been too focused on Sydney to notice their entry. Vaughn briefly pondered just how much of his conversation with Sydney they had heard, then decided he didn't care. The only thing he cared about was the faint sound of shallow breaths in his headset.

The music on the intercom began to fade, replaced by the sound of doors opening and closing. After the final door closed, the agent's footsteps increased their cadence, stomping quickly down the stairs and across the basement.

"I'm at the vault door," he said. "Working on the lock." A second later, they heard the beep and clank, followed by the sound of the door opening.

"Shit." Vaughn imagined him picking up Sydney's limp, unconscious — possibly dead — form from the vault floor, rubbing her arms and legs, pulling her close to try to give her some body heat. "She's unconscious, but I've still got a weak pulse." Vaughn released the breath he had been holding, and heard Jack do the same.

"I can't do this myself. I've got to get her to a hospital." They could hear him climbing the steps, and opening and closing the doors.

"How are you going to get out of there?" Weiss asked.

"She looks just like an OD," the agent replied. "I'm sure she won't be the first blue-lipped woman they cart off tonight."

Vaughn's imagination hadn't produced that color. Quietly, he excused himself, yanking his headset off. He barely made it to the restroom before spilling the contents of his stomach in the sink.

A few minutes later, he heard the door open and looked up, trying to figure out who it could be. He quickly decided on Devlin, there to take him off the case and give him a lifetime supply of meetings with Barnett, and prepared for the worst.

It was only Weiss. "He's got her on the way to the hospital." Vaughn was still leaning slightly over the sink, hands resting on the countertop for support. 

"You do know you're too emotionally attached." Weiss' words were an odd cross between a statement and a question.

Vaughn nodded dully and glanced up, eyes pained, to look at Weiss's reflection in the mirror above the sink. "Did Devlin say anything?" He cared slightly now, and realized he would care much more if news from the hospital was positive.

"Yeah," Weiss told him. "He wanted to know who Will and Francie were." 


	6. Return to Warmth

Title: Fahrenheit  
Author: Laras_Dice  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: None  
Archive: Anywhere, but please let me know  
Summary: A mission puts body heat on everyone's mind.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing and love Alias. So don't sue me!

AN: Final chapter. I promise-promise-promise I will now work on a sequel to Spark. You guys rock with the feedback -- keep it coming! :-) 

Chapter 6 - Return to Warmth

Vaughn sat silently in the middle of the warehouse, waiting in the stifling heat. He was sweaty and uncomfortable, but couldn't bring himself to curse high temperatures anymore.

The last few days had been fraught with sleepless nights and a rolling tension in his stomach that wouldn't stop. His memories of the mission kept replaying in his mind, a broken record he feared wouldn't stop until he saw Sydney again. _At least_, he told himself, _you will get to see her again_. _Her, and not her casket._

It had taken more than two hours of tense waiting for the confirmation to come from one of the agents at the hospital. "Doctors say she's out of the woods. Full recovery expected."

The agents had registered her as a Jane Doe and she had been transported to a CIA facility in Florida as soon as she was stable. Jack had run interference at SD-6 to cover for her absence, supplying them with a fake set of vials, which had at least temporarily satisfied Sloane.

Vaughn turned his eyes upward at the clunk of a slamming metal door. His first glimpse of her was both wonderful and painful. Her face was pale, almost ghostly, and one side was bright red, where it had rested on the frozen floor. The blue wool sweater she was wearing certainly didn't mesh with the heat. 

Blue, Vaughn realized, was no longer his favorite color. In fact, he would have been happy to eliminate it from the spectrum entirely. 

"Hey," she said hoarsely. She caught his scrutiny of her attire, and looked down. "I just can't seem to feel warm anymore." As if to prove her point, a tremor wracked her body.

Vaughn felt his chest tighten painfully in response. He wanted her to feel warm. Wanted her to feel safe. Wanted to erase the memories from his mind. Wanted to stop hearing her say the words, over and over in his mind: "My f-fingertips are t-turning b-blue." 

And so he closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her, drawing her in tight and absorbing her next shiver with his body. She was startled by his forwardness, but relaxed quickly, sliding her arms across his back, realizing that she needed this just as much as he did.

"I thought I lost you," he whispered. A simple phrase, but it said a lot, especially to the part of her that had flushed with the words, "What are you wearing?" 

Sydney couldn't see if there were tears in his eyes, but she could hear them in his voice.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For making sure you didn't. For pulling me through it."

He started to scoff at her words, but she silenced him with a "shhh," pulling closer. She placed her head on his shoulder with a soft sigh as he traced his hands lightly across the small of her back, basking in her existence there, sweater slightly scratchy under his hands.

_If only I could just stay here for the rest of my life and tell Arvin Sloane to go to hell_, Sydney thought. She wasn't sure if it was due to the warmth from his body or the care in his touch, but something now kept her thoughts from continuously snapping back to that frigid vault in Brazil. They spent the duration of their meeting that way, quietly reassuring each other with the embrace. 

Eventually, she reluctantly pulled away. "I have to get to class, which means first I have to throw a bunch of makeup on this." She pointed to the red mark on her face.

His smile was faint, and overshadowed by his furrowed brow, but she felt better seeing it — seeing his eyes lighten enough to make her feel like she could leave and neither of them would implode. "I'll see you."

"Okay." A simple word, but she could hear the peace in it, and turned to leave.

Sydney glanced down at her sweater as she walked out. Smiling, she pulled it off, opened the door to her Land Rover, and threw it in her back seat.

Suddenly, she didn't feel like she needed it.


End file.
